Carry Me Down
by lilyxsnapex4eva
Summary: After an experiment brought about by a terrible boredom, Sherlock Holmes manages to get himself turned into a child. A reluctant Mycroft agrees to help take care of him along with John...but it won't be as easy as they think. Rated T for later themes (just in case), no slash, Kid!Sherlock, and lots of havoc. P.S.
1. Boredom

**Hello everyone!**

**So this is my first 'Sherlock' fic. This is also a deaging fic, as there really aren't too many Sherlock deaging fics (but kid!Sherlock seems like it'd be so cute! 8D) . Probably because it's a bit hard to do...so I hope you enjoy this! And if you have any suggestions, please tell me! I want to bring happiness and joy to all my readers ^_^**

**ALLONS-Y! 8D**

**I don't own anything owned by anything else (i.e. Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle)**

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_Bored._

_Bored. Bored. Bored._

Sherlock lay reclining on the sofa with a look of utter distaste. His dark curls hung over his eyebrows in a way that gave him the appearance of a moody child, his desperate need for a haircut only enhancing this. He glared at the ceiling, as if it were the reason for his lack of occupation. All of this, tied in with the prospect of an oncoming cold, made the consulting detective all the more ill humoured and boorish for his flatmate, John Watson.

"Stop sulking, it's not going to make anything better."

The detective didn't even acknowledge the sweater clad man hidden behind the newspaper. Instead he continued staring at the ceiling, sniffing in an attempt to ward off an earth shattering sneeze that threatened to break the ultimately incessant silence.

Suddenly he bolted upwards, causing the couch to make a horrendous creaking sound despite his thin frame. John looked over his newspaper (more out of irritation than surprise) to see Sherlock massaging his temples, eyebrows furrowed with annoyance.

"I need a case! My brain is cooking! Why doesn't Lestrade-"

"My word! Calm down, you're like a child!"

"I need a case!"

"NO. You do not!"

Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh and fell back, staring at the ceiling again. For a few moments the silence returned. But soon afterwards Sherlock once again broke it with the drumming of fingers on his arm, which was covered by the sleeve of a purple button up shirt. Finally John slammed the paper shut and placed it on his lap. To this the detective only sniffed and continued what he was doing.

"Why don't you go out and..._do _something...? You know...like a _normal_ human being?"

"Normal is dull. I need a case."

"Okay...then go do something abnormal."

"Everything you consider abnormal is dull. Dull, dull, dull! Nothing interesting!"

Throughout his vent, Sherlock's voice had begun steadily rising until finally it was almost a yell. He shot up into a standing position and proceeded to stalk to the cabinet, which held his gun. Unfortunately when he got there he found that it had been deadlocked. Annoyance surged through him and he clomped back to an exasperated John.

"Where's the key, John."

"No."

"John."

"Sherlock, you are NOT blowing holes in the wall, I just patched up your last episode! And, if you care to know, it was very expensive."

"John. Key. Now. I know you have it."

"No. Go blog."

Sherlock gave a grunt and viciously ran his fingers through his already frazzled hair. Walking around the room, he continued muttering under his breath until blessedly, his phone rang. Relief overtook his features, and he practically dove over a table to reach the device, which lay on the arm of the sofa he had been laying on. But his face fell when the text ended up being an ad, not Lestrade. John couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for him, even if he was being a bit of a brat. The consulting detective was much like a child. When he couldn't do what he wanted, he felt useless, almost rejected. And the endless flow of information that his brilliant mind continually processed was enough to send anyone into sensory overload. Adding the fact that most people practically hated him, he rarely had any other social interaction outside of his detective work. This all made him a bit antsy, to say the least.

As if to prove John's point, Sherlock flung himself back down on the couch, mumbling and moving his hands in the air eccentrically.

"Boring, boring, boring! I'm in a world of boringness that hangs in space surrounded by a big black _BORING."_

_"The Earth revolves around the sun, _Sherlock! I still don't understand how you don't know that!"

"Because. It's not. Important!"

John groaned and brought his palm to his forehead, bringing it down slowly to rest on his chin.

_He's about to go mad, and he's going to take me with him if I don't do something..._

With that thought, John stood up. He gave a forced smile (which ended up looking more like a grimace) and walked over to Sherlock, grabbed his arm and led him to the door. Needless to say, the detective wasn't too fond of the gesture and attempted to rid himself of John's ironlike grasp. But John held fast, as he was used to leading unwilling patients to treatment.

"Where are we going."

"Somewhere that will keep you entertained."

"Where."

"I don't know. Maybe you can go scream in a library if that's abnormal enough for you. And if you say 'boring' or anything relating to that word, you'll wish you had never been born."

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After trying numerous options, Sherlock finally decided on a store that carried numerous chemicals and the like. John wasn't exactly too fond of this (as the experiments usually ended up having to be cleaned by him), but it was better than having a wall full of bullets. So after Sherlock made his purchases, they made their way back to the apartment and the detective promptly shut himself up in his room.

The rest of the evening was fairly quiet, much to John's delight. Usually, by now they would have been solving a case or Sherlock would have been looking for another one to occupy himself with. It was nice, and it gave the doctor time to get a few things done, such as updating his blog. So it was to his great disappointment and surprise that he heard a large explosion in the next room. Watson quickly set aside his laptop and made his way to the shut door. He knocked lightly.

"Are you all right?"

When no answer came, John entered slowly. He almost wished he hadn't. Books and other oddities had been strewn all over the floor in the explosion. On the bed, there was a long piece of blackened meat that the detective had seemingly been experimenting on. The only thing missing from the scene was Sherlock Holmes...

Until the head of a child with wild looking curls popped up over the bed. He scowled at John and crossed his arms, his big gray-green eyes gazing at John sternly.

"You needn't have come in. I was about to come out."

John's eyes bugged out of his skull and his mouth hung open in complete shock. After a few seconds, he closed it, though he still looked stunned.

"Sherlock...?"

The boy crinkled his face incredulously and cocked his head to the side.

"Yes...?"

John sighed in a tone of 'oh-great-you've-done-it-now-Sherlock', and scratched his head.

"Okay...uhm...you stay in here...and I'm going to get...someone...yeah."

John slowly walked out of the room and closed the door behind him. After doing so, he leaned against the door with his mouth open once again. It was not possible. How could this have happened? But most of all, what was he going to do? Lestrade couldn't help, no one at work would know what to do...the only possible explanation would be...

_Oh, Sherlock will be beside himself..._

But like it or not, that was the only choice. Mycroft Holmes was practically the only person who knew his brother in their younger years...so only he would know how to deal with him until his brother's...'condition' was cleared up. And assuming Sherlock hadn't figured it out yet (or he hadn't when John found him), Mycroft would best know how to break it too him.

**Sherlock's done something stupid. Please come immediately.  
JW**

**On my way  
M**

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**And there ya go! =D Please let me know if you want me to finish it, and if you have anything that would make it better =)**


	2. Don't Wake Me

**Hey everyone! =D Thank you SO much to all of the people who followed, favourited, and rated! It made me so happy ^_^ Also, thank you for even reading this ^.^ **

**ALLONS-Y!**

**I don't own anything owned by anyone else (i.e. Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, Sir Arther Conan Doyle, ect)**

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John sat in a huge, padded armchair. His brows furrowed in concentration, and underneath them eyes gazed at the paper he had been trying to read earlier that day. But as his mind continued to wander, he set down his paper on his lap and leaned back, deep in thought.

On a good day, Sherlock Holmes was a hard man to live with. His typical snarky remarks were enough to drive the retired army doctor to his wit's end. And the detective's irritating habit of experimenting with decidedly garish objects continually kept him on his toes (with a broom nearby). Immature, childish, impatient, and rude. This was Sherlock Holmes. But he was also alone. Terribly alone. Even when surrounded by hundreds of others, the detective still seemed 'set apart'. Perhaps this was the only reason John Watson stayed.

So how would this play out in the younger version? Assuming he hadn't found out yet, suddenly finding out that you've been...changed...

John frowned. How was he to be told, anyway? Perhaps Mycroft would know.

Almost as if on cue, Mycroft Holmes strode into the room. He was decked head to toe in a black suit, and carrying a matching black umbrella. A smug expression took over his features as he nodded in acknowledgement of John's presence. Immediately John shot up, all calmness aside.

"Mycroft, thank goodness-"

"Yes, yes, pleasantries and all that. What is the matter, I'm rather in a hurry."

John frowned. Mycroft's interruption took him aback for a moment. But he quickly recovered and motioned for him to follow him into Sherlock's room.

Sherlock was asleep when they entered. He lay on his side with his knees against his chest, matted curls framing his now young face. Mycroft's mouth dropped open in shock(a thing that John could not help but laugh at later on) He strode over to the edge of the bed to examine his younger brother's face. It was like being thrown back in time, and it took Mycroft a moment to take it in. Then he stood up and turned to John with a smile. "

"Well...this is an interesting turn of events, isn't it? But you didn't have to wait for me to tell him. I won't do any better of a job than you would have done."

Before John could ask how he had known, Mycroft turned and shook his sleeping brother. Despite the fact that his brother had shaken him none too gently, it took the boy a moment to wake up, leaving John to wonder if his cold had evolved into something worse.

Upon seeing his brother, Sherlock frowned and began to sit up.

"Mycroft. Go away, I don't want to talk to you."

Mycroft simply shrugged and knelt down, gently pushing the boy back against the pillows in the process.

"Then I'll be brief. John, do you have a handheld mirror?"

"Uhm...uh...yes, I think so. But why-"

"Go get it for me, will you? This will be much less drawn out and painful if he is just shown."

John shrugged and left the room, returning a few seconds later with a blue handheld mirror. He gave it to Mycroft from the other side of the bed. Mycroft nodded, and with a look of 'look-what-you-did-now', flipped it over to face Sherlock. The reaction was immediate. The boy snatched the mirror from his brother's grasp, touching his face to make sure it was he who was being shown in the glass. His alarmingly glazed eyes opened wide, and so did the boy's in the mirror.

Although it was undoubtedly far quicker than verbally telling him, John was still a bit hesitant to believe that showing him had been the best way to inform the consulting detective of his new status. Sherlock's horrified expression was unnerving to say the least, as it wasn't a feature often seen on his face. Adding to this uncomfortable situation was a newfound silence that seemed to weigh on the two older men. Even Mycroft seemed a bit lost for what to do or say.

Finally, taking the responsibility as the doctor in the room, John leaned over and put a hand on the boys shoulder. He gently pried the mirror out of the boys hands, placing it upside down at the foot of the bed. His face was a mask over a concerned countenance as he got down on his knees so as not to be taller than the boy (he wasn't quite sure how that would help, but seeing as how Sherlock had always been the taller of the two he thought it might do _something _to help).

"Are you alright?"

Stupid question. Of course he wasn't. But it was the only question that seemed mildly appropriate, thinking as a doctor.

Sherlock continued to stare straight ahead, his hands clenched in his lap. His face transitioned from shock and horror to determination, with jaw set and brows furrowed.

"Yes."

_Lying._ The word popped into Mycroft's head as the word left his brother's mouth. He rolled his eyes. This was something he had been infamous for in their youth, denying when he was sick or hurt. As if it were a weakness. And it was, in Mycroft's mind, but not as much as being a liar. He did care for his brother, though, even if he had an odd way of showing it. But that didn't mean he was going to leave his brother's fate to chance...even if that meant embarrassment on the younger's part.

"He can't help you if you lie to him."

Sherlock turned to his older brother with a scowl most unfitting for his 'age'. And it wasn't fearsome at all, it was almost cute in a way (of course if he were asked, Mycroft would have denied it). But there was something in it that suggested not anger, but overwhelming fear simply kept in check through the sheer willpower shared by both of the Holmes boys.

"I don't need help. I'm fine."

"Lying."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Mycroft simply shrugged with a slightly amused expression on his face. But a bit of his amusement went away when Sherlock's eyes began to fill with tears. Much to the boy's displeasure, and he inwardly cursed himself for not being able to control it. And he cursed himself even more as his stomach began to churn, causing his mouth to salivate.

John, only truly observant in medical terms, frowned in noticing the boy's dilemma.

"Sherlock-"

"Go. I'm tired."

The sharpness in the boys voice took John aback for a moment. He gave an unnoticeable glance to Mycroft, who gave a small nod and moved to stand up. John followed suit, and closed the door softly behind him.

As soon as the pair left, Sherlock bit his lip and frantically ran his fingers through his hair. Then he curled up onto his side, holding his stomach and fighting back the wave of nausea that threatened to break into something nasty.

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_The room was pitch black, save for the numerous computer monitors computer moniters that covered one wall. They gave off an eery, iridescent blueish colour, bathing the figure in front of them in their ghostly light. Suddenly, the colour changed to a dank, brownish orange. The man cocked his head in surprise. Then he rolled over (he was sitting in a wheely chair) to the screen on the far left of the wall. To anyone else, it was simply a sleeping child. But he wasn't 'just anyone else'. Oh no. He was much more than that. And as a smile began to tip the corner of his lips, a low chuckle began to eminate off the walls..._

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**I hope you enjoyed it! =D Thank you so much for reading and I hope to update you soon =)**

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**Reviews:**

**Anna: Hey, thanks =D And oh, don't worry, I won't abandon the other one ;) I hate that too, and plus I really love writing Setting Fire =)**


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